


Someone Should

by harrylee94



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drug Use, coming down from a high
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-28
Updated: 2017-07-28
Packaged: 2018-12-07 21:17:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11632092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/harrylee94/pseuds/harrylee94
Summary: Before John, there had been drugs, and with every high, there was a low. And sometimes, there was Greg.





	Someone Should

“You’re an idiot,” Greg growled, pushing the young man in front of him. “Do you know what could have happened if it had been an officer who’d found you?”

“I don’t need you,” Sherlock replied, trying to pull himself away, but Greg kept a firm hold on his coat. “Let go of me!”

“No, I don’t think I will!” Greg replied, his voice rising as he pushed at Sherlock again, leading him up the drive towards his house. The drive had been chaos, Sherlock trying to clamber over into the front from the child-locked back, trying to force Greg off the road, talking non-stop about his home and work life, but they reached his home eventually, even if there were a few close calls.

“You’re… you’re working for _him_ aren’t you!” Sherlock suddenly exclaimed. “I knew you were! You can’t fool me. I see through you, ‘detective’.”

Suddenly, the door opened, and Greg found his wife standing there, at first shocked, and then resigned. “I’ll make up the spare bedroom then,” she said.

“Sorry Jane,” Greg called after her as she headed back inside.

“Spies!” Sherlock cried as he continued to struggle. “I know it! How much does he pay you? Tell me!”

“We’re not spies, Sherlock,” Greg told him, though it was doubtful the man would believe him, and quickly shut the door before heading to the sitting room.

“I said let go of me!”

This was probably the third time Greg had brought Sherlock home after finding him high as a kite, and it probably wasn’t going to be the last. The lad needed some serious help, and he knew he wasn’t the person to give it to him, but he could at least give him a safe place to crash.

Pushing Sherlock down into the same armchair he always did, Greg stood over him, ready for his next move. Holmes was breathing heavily, clearly fatigued from his efforts, but his eyes were searching everywhere for a way out.

“You’re not leaving until it’s out of your system,” Greg told him.

Sherlock glared at him. “You’re not my father.”

“Touch shit. You’re not leaving.”

Sherlock growled and tried to push himself up again, but Greg shoved him back. “You can’t keep me here.”

“I’ve managed it before,” Greg replied with a shrug.

“Not any more!”

Unfortunately for Sherlock, that explanation was followed by a piss poor attempt to jump over the arm of the chair, and he caught his foot on the cover and fell flat on his face. Greg sighed and pulled him up, setting him back in the seat before checking his face.

“Your breath stinks.”

“I had a spicy lunch,” Greg replied, uncaring of the complaints, and he was pleased to find that Sherlock was relatively unscathed, except for a bit of carpet burn on his cheek. “Now stay still.”

“I don’t take orders from-”

“Me, I know,” Greg replied, looking up when Jane returned, rolling her eyes at the scene and heading into the kitchen. “How are you feeling?”

Sherlock just glared up at him.

“Glad to know you trust me that much,” he uttered, then smiled over at his wife, who came in with a plate of sandwiches. “You’re an angel.”

“Don’t you know it,” she said, handing him the plate. “The room’s all set up.”

“Thanks,” Greg replied, kissing her lightly on the cheek. Sherlock made a gagging noise. “Be nice! She made sandwiches!”

“Don’t want your sandwiches,” he muttered, though his gaze did linger on them.

Greg hummed, lowering the plate to him. Sherlock ignored it for several long moments, then grabbed the majority of the sandwiches from the plate, leaving Greg with only one, and hoarded them in his lap, eating them like a starved man.

“Not too fast,” Greg warned. “Don’t want you choke.”

Sherlock snorted and continued to scoff his meal, eyes beginning to droop. This always happened; he shouted and screamed and struggled, then he ate, and then he fell asleep, exhausted from his previous activities. He wasn’t sure if Sherlock knew, but if he did, he wasn’t saying anything about it.

By the time they’d finished, Sherlock was wilting, crumbs all down his front and his hands and cheeks a mess. Greg sighed and heaved Sherlock to his feet, much to the taller man’s annoyance. “Come on, let’s get you to bed.”

“Mmm, don’ trust you,” Sherlock muttered, but followed his lead all the same.

It took a little prodding and poking, but he got Sherlock cleaned up and to the spare room, where Sherlock collapsed onto the covers.

“Goodnight Sherlock,” Greg muttered, turning off the light.

Sherlock moaned in reply.

Standing outside the door, Greg found himself confronted by his wife, who was holding a chair and a steaming mug of strong, black coffee. “You’ll be keeping watch again.”

Greg nodded, taking the chair from her and setting it by the door. “The nightmares.”

Jane nodded, holding out the mug. “You care too much about that man.”

“Someone should,” he replied, accepting the drink and setting himself down for his watch.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
